"Sige, go ahead, kill yourself. And I hope you go to hell too. On top of that, ang baba naman ng EQ mo. Wala kang kuwenta. Sana hindi ka nalang nabuhay.”


That is the most daring thing someone has ever told me in response to one of my infrequent psychotic episodes. Brave words from a man who does not even have the slightest clue on how my life has been in the last couple of years.
Woi, you got me there ha. You bought yourself time with that. Why do you always know what to say?
Yes, I have contemplated suicide. That I won’t deny.

But deciding to die isn’t just defined by the acts of slashing one’s wrists or drugging one’s self to infinite slumber or jumping off some bridge; it's a personal choice of a man to save himself from himself.
Suicide does not equal to self-destruction. Not necessarily, in my twisted opinion anyway. Yet it is an option only among the foolish, the reckless, the weak, the self-serving. And it is, no doubt, the utmost piece of chickening out.
I am foolish. I am reckless. I am weak. I am self-seving. Because I have chosen to die. I will. I simply must.


Killing who I am at this time is the only way I could think of to redeem what is left of the person I once was. The long buried me. The one I have always liked being. The one I wanted to forever be.